Such was the state of feeling in the hamlet, when Mr. Trevethlan demanded the hand of Margaret Basset. Alone, perhaps, among her neighbours, the maiden's mother received the announcement with joy and pride. She accepted it as the fulfilling of her own prediction. Margaret trembled as she thought of the gipsy's. But, whatever were her feelings, she could not resist the desires of her parent, and the authority of the castle. Her sister, Cecily, was her only confidante. The marriage was settled.
But then came the difficulty as to the performance of the ceremony. Mr. Trevethlan respected the pride of his chaplain, but he resolved to meet no other check of the kind. There was a clergyman, a very young man, seeking to repair his shattered health by a residence on that genial coast, and evidently in no very flourishing circumstances. Him did Mr. Trevethlan induce to celebrate the rite, under a special license, within the walls of the castle. Maud, and a young rustic, named Wyley, were the only witnesses; and the country-folk might well conjecture that a marriage, contracted in so singular, and, to them, in so revolting a manner, was irregular, and might be dissolved. Moreover, it was not entered in the parish register until after the birth of Randolph, and then not in the usual form.
So these circumstances provoked much popular indignation. When Mr. Trevethlan took home his bride all the doors in the hamlet were closed, and no individual was visible on the green. Even Jeffrey's face was shaded with discontent when he threw open the gates; and Mr. and Mrs. Griffith could not avoid displaying a little humiliation in receiving their new mistress. Polydore Riches, alone of the household, met her with a sincere welcome, in which kindness was enforced by pity. Some folks wondered that he remained at the castle. But the chaplain had satisfied his conscience by his protest, and stayed to mitigate a misfortune which he was unable to avert.
The day after the marriage the hamlet was startled by an occurrence, which gave fresh force to the suspicions of the villagers. Mr. Ashton, the clergyman, was missed from his lodgings. He went out the evening of the wedding, as was his habit, to stroll along the cliffs, and he never returned. In much excitement the people made a diligent and immediate search, and on the beach below his haunt they found the body of a man, stripped, and so disfigured, that identification was impossible. It was soon discovered that Wyley, the witness, was also missing from his home, and the comments made on the coincidence were loud and strong.
Advertisements brought forward Mr. Ashton's relations. From them Polydore Riches learnt that his health had been ruined by self-indulgence, and that he was allowed a small stipend on condition of residing in perfect retirement. There seemed to be no very particular concern felt about his fate. The gentleman who came down was unable to recognise the body, so great were the injuries it had received, apparently in falling from the cliff. The coroner's inquest returned an open verdict.
There the matter rested. The mystery had not been explained. There were, however, low whispers, that Will Watch's lugger had run along the shore the night Mr. Ashton was missed, and that the country lanes were alive with active traffic. But if it were so, those who could be explicit on the matter if they chose, found it more expedient to hold their tongues.
For a time the event gave, as has been said, new vigour to the suspicions concerning poor Margaret's marriage. Her mother was the only witness remaining. But when a son and heir was born to Mr. Trevethlan, and there came no formal impeachment of the union, the rumours gradually died away. The peasant-lady, by her meekness and modesty, won the regard of all the inmates of the castle, except—her husband. He exacted, indeed, the utmost deference towards her from others, but treated her himself with cold indifference, and seemed jealous of her influence with her children, even in their cradle. She foresaw what would come, pined away, and died. Her bliss had been her bane.
Michael Sinson said nothing to his patroness of the mode in which Mr. Trevethlan behaved to his wife's relations. He did not tell how bitterly old Maud resented the death of her daughter, nor how his own expulsion from the castle rankled even yet in his heart. But he dwelt with much craft on the singular circumstances of the marriage, and the mysterious disappearance of the evidence; hinted at times, that the rite would have been pronounced a mockery, if its purpose had not been achieved, and suggested, not very indistinctly, that it might yet be proved to have been so in reality.
These hints and inuendos were the main novelties of the story to Mrs. Pendarrel. Of her own knowledge, she recollected the leading facts of the case, and was well aware that, whatever might be the prejudices of the vulgar, there was not the slightest public ground to doubt the perfect formality of the marriage. Moreover, she felt certain, from her acquaintance with Henry Trevethlan's character, that he would never be a party to an artifice like that suggested by Sinson. If there were anything irregular, she was sure it was no fault of his. But there was a confidence in her informant's manner which seemed to intimate that he spoke on no light grounds.
"Sinson," she said, after some consideration, and with an air of the most unreserved frankness, "you know, of course, perfectly well, that if the marriage you have been speaking of were not lawfully contracted, the small estate of Trevethlan would fall, by inheritance, to Mr. Pendarrel. And though I am sure he would be disposed to show every kindness to those who in that case would, by no fault of their own, be holding a false position, still justice to his family would compel him to enforce his claim. And any party contributing by proper means to the establishment of the title would, of course, be liberally rewarded. But an attempt which should simply cause annoyance to Mr. Trevethlan without profiting ourselves, would be equally disagreeable to us. And we should be very far, indeed, from speculating on a mere chance, or using any unfair means. Now, from your manner, you appear to possess, or to fancy you do, some information which may be valuable. For myself, I am no judge of such matters; but Mr. Pendarrel will give you an introduction to our lawyer. He will consider the worth of your intelligence, and you may rely on an adequate remuneration."